


mix the salt and sugar and flour

by fueledbysquee



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Chefs, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Internet Notoriety, M/M, Wedding Planning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:38:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fueledbysquee/pseuds/fueledbysquee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time, Louis and Nick were rude to each other in a restaurant.  Louis took it as a sign, Nick blogged about it, and they went their separate ways.  Mostly.  They get a second chance when Aimee and Ian hire Louis to cater their wedding.</p><p> <br/><i>I want to be your absolute ultimate</i><br/><i>Want to be your only one now</i><br/><i>Feel the wave come up from your sulkiness</i><br/><i>Feel the rays you radiate now</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	mix the salt and sugar and flour

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nylandeer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nylandeer/gifts).



> Dear Mayapiee,
> 
> Despite my best intentions, and your A+ prompts, it turns out that I can't write kid!fic in anything fewer than a billion words, and that was more words than I had time for.
> 
> Luckily, I also think that Louis "chicken stuffed with mozzarella wrapped in parma ham" Tomlinson could make a really hilariously aggressive proprietor of avant-garde cuisine with the proper motivation, so that's what happened here. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> * * *
> 
> title from Unsingable Name, even though I'm fairly sure both Nick and Louis would hate the song. [lyrics](http://www.mikedoughty.com/music/unsingable-name) \- [performance](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O9dysndmeO0)

entry posted 17:40 15-06-2013

_So, this is happening._

_Hello, the internet! Did you know that the internet is quite a large thing with rather a lot of people on it? ~~On it? In it? On it.~~_

_It turns out that it's one thing to know that, and quite another to have even a very, very small fraction of those people show up in one's corner of it._

_Regular readers of this blog may have noticed an uptick of traffic in the comments section. (I know, I was as shocked as you are that someone who is not obligated by the bonds of friendship would read anything I write. Who knows why such a bizarre phenomenon exists, but web stats assure me it is the truth.) Used to be I'd respond to every comment except for the porn spam (and sometimes even the porn spam, if it was quality porn). This is because most of the commenters were my friends or my mum. Like actual friends, not you lot. But sadly those days have passed._

_(Just kidding, my mum never bothers to read anything I write. If you are my mum - hiya Eileen - and checked this site once three years ago, and are just now getting back to it, here's what you missed.)_

_What started out here as a silly joke on my proper DJ website had somehow become the real thing, the almighty Content that producers everywhere are looking for. I've gone viral. Hate that word, viral. Seems particularly offensive in relation to food. It turns out that I have tapped into the whatsit, the zeitgeist, and people are now willing to pay me more for my rubbish writing about restaurants than they are for my rubbish playing of music._

_I can no longer keep up. This means you, dedicated trolls and hate-readers. ~~It's not you, it's me.~~ It's definitely you, and now there are a lot more of you. Talk to each other, maybe. Make a friend._

_For those of you who've been here for years, and those of you just tuning in, I will reiterate one last time: I am a terrible food critic. I have never disputed this. It's just that now I am a terrible food critic who's being paid for it, so I really should put some effort into it._

_And to the worst waiter I have ever met IN MY LIFE: Thanks, I guess. You're my inspiration, and look where that got me. Deadlines. Stuck in front of a computer until the end of time._

* * *

_comment from Guest03219_ 02:38 18-06-2013

_how thick do u have to be to walk into a carvery hour before close and try 2 order gluten-free and veggie? id ask if you can write any better than u can read but I know the answer now :(_

* * *

"What's wrong with Wednesday?" Aimee asks, and then carries on without waiting for an answer. "Thursday? Friday?"

"How about three weeks from never?" Nick says. "I also have a clearing in my schedule for the week after the apocalypse, whenever that is."  Nick would like to think that he's considerate of his friends needs, but first, he knows that's mostly only true in case of genuine disaster, which this is not, and second, if Aimee says one more word to Nick about catering, he may try to strangle himself with his headphone cable. He's been glad - hell, they've all been glad - for a long time that Ian's the one marrying Aimee, but it's never been more true than it is now that their wedding planning has kicked into high gear.

It's going to be amazing, a totally next-level event, because there's no way that for a party thrown by Aimee and attended by most of their friends to avoid being one of Nick's favorite things ever. But it's also going to be completely bonkers, and there's an excellent chance that Aimee will make one or more of the vendors cry if they fail to meet her standards. Ian has turned out to be the perfect co-planner, (and one would hope, husband): just willing enough to go along with most of everyone's stupid ideas, but also genuinely nice enough that no one, least of all Aimee, can stay mad when he refuses something that's gone too far.

This is the only reason why Nick is still confident that the affair will at least resemble a wedding, with all the traditionally included bits, if not the traditional versions of them.

The music will be fine, Nick's sure. The cake's being done by one of their friends, thank God, so there's at least a 60% chance that it's going to be edible, and a similarly high percentage that she won't end up in tears. And Nick doesn't know any of the folks involved with the hall that they've hired, so if they make a hash of the decor, or the seating, it's nothing to Nick. No one's going to remember those bits.

But the food. Christ, the food. It's all Aimee's been talking about for weeks. The dresses had been nothing in comparison, and she'll have to live with those photos for the rest of her life.

"All I'm saying," Nick says in his best and most careful friend-wrangling voice, "is what's wrong with a nice roast or piece of fish. Pasta. A salad. Some potatoes.

"You'll see," Aimee replies, unusually placid in her confidence. She's been saying that a lot, like it's an actual argument and not just a stalling tactic. "Everyone will be talking about it." Nick believes that much at least, and he just hopes it's not because they all end up in hospital.

"He's brilliant, Grim, like actually brilliant. So unexpected. You'd love him if you just gave it a chance. He doesn't even have a permanent restaurant, he only does pop-ups or catering on less than two months notice. Or, like, he'll put the word out on twitter and show up on a street corner with three hundred pasties or tacos in the back of his van."

Nick barely holds in the dismissive sound that the information deserves, because he is a good friend and also Aimee has very pointy nails. If only Aimee didn't have a knack for describing her caterer in a way that's probably meant to be endearing, but mostly makes Nick think of health violations and bodily injury. "You know I hate standing in lines," he says. "And eating places without proper tables. What even is the point? He sounds a little unstable, if you ask me."

Aimee raises an eyebrow. "You love a chef who might suddenly lose his shit in the middle of dinner service."

"I love them on twitter or youtube. Not when it's my food that they're spitting into or poisoning, love. Or yours."

"And on Friday, you-"

"Doesn't count on a night out," Nick interrupts. "Impulse decisions. And I hate a fad."

Aimee claps her hands together, and makes her ' _I've won an argument_ ' noise. It and Nick are old friends, even if he rarely admits a loss. "You love a fad," she says. "Aren't you gluten-free again this week?"

"That's not a fad," Nick says. "That's science, like you being veggie."

"It's not-," Aimee says. "Nick, you don't even care if the food's good," she huffs. "Now you're just being contrary."

"Of course I care if the food's good," Nick sighs back. He cares if everything turns out the way she imagined it, whatever twisted fairy tale version of wedding she wants.

In the end, it doesn't matter what words she uses. It's her party and she can, y'know, whatever. Do things. Cry if she wants to. She's probably barely going to eat. _Nick_ is probably barely going to eat. They both know that the food is just the buffer before the serious drinking sets in.

Ugh, Nick had better not point that out, lest she decide to make the food _extra_ memorable to survive the alcohol haze.

* * *

**Filed under: (in)frequently asked questions**

_Q: What with your blog title?_

_A: Back at the dawn of time, this blog was titled "Terrible food in ugly buildings." In addition to not being constantly on the verge of trade mark infringement, it was also wholly accurate to what I was writing about then._

_The current title ( Not Exactly Gordon Ramsay, in case anyone reading this missed the words in giant script at the top of this page) owes to a quote from literally the worst waiter I have ever encountered, a young man with an unfortunately Bieber-ish haircut. I liked it as a title because, 1) as my friends will tell you, I say it constantly and 2) it's multi-purpose. It's as true about me as it is about the places I write about._

* * *

_Q: You can't even drop a link to the story?_

_A: Nope. You know that story that your friend tells all the time, but it's the worst? Nothing happens, and he talks forever, and it's all to get to, like the last thing he says? And you want to yell JUST SAY THE THING. This is that story. It's not even well-written._

* * *

_Q: Are you ever going to get a proper job?_

_A: No, dad. No, I am not._

* * *

_Q: What's your favorite meal._

_A: Love a good Sunday roast, or any other meal that's at least half down to the people you're eating it with._

* * *

_Q: You should do a vlog._

_A: No. Also, that isn't a question._

* * *

Aimee has somehow convinced this poor bloke, who's already catering the wedding breakfast and the reception, to deliver food to Nick's for a rehearsal dinner for the American travelers and assorted relatives, two nights before. Obviously money was involved, and Nick suspects there was a lot of it, for it to be worth the man's while to come up with three separate menus that integrate into Aimee's vision of the weekend.

Nick flatly refused to go with her to any of the tastings right to the last minute, and the menu she'd shown him for 'approval' - his right as the host listed on the invitation - had been half written in words that Nick suspected were made up on the spot.

If he'd been on the edge of relenting, which he will never, ever admit, that gave him the strength to keep saying no. He spends more than enough time eating artfully dodgy food for his work, and it seems cruel that he's being expected to do it in his spare time when he's not even going to be able to write about it. He'd might as well eat crisps and takeaway sushi for the rest of the month. He never has to pretend to be clever about those, and sometimes he still gets good traffic out of "reviewing" a night spent in at home in front of the telly.

Aimee gives it one last try, literally poking and prodding him the morning of her last appointment with the caterer of chaos. "It's _so good_ , Grim, you'll love him. Are you sure you won't come? I'll even let you write it up; he's totally on the bleeding edge."

The problem is, it's Nick's best-kept secret that there's nothing in the world less interesting to him than learning how to be a proper food critic, or in getting to whoever the hot new thing is before everyone else. Competition is dead boring.

Nick likes an evening out, and he even likes most of the writing, even if it was a struggle to get used to the lag time between effort and feedback. But the longer this crazy bubble of his apparent career stretches out, the more likely it is that he'll come up against something that will simply defeat his ability to describe it. He still thinks of himself as an entertainer first, not an educator, and maybe he's cornered the market on charmingly underinformed, but people seem to like it, and he likes people, so who is he to question that success too closely or push it too far.

"I really can't," Nick says. "I've got, you know, deadlines." He waves his hands in a way that he hopes conveys 'responsibilities' and not 'desperate avoidance.' Heaven forbid he have to smile politely through any more meals than strictly necessary. He knows that wedding planning can ruin relationships - he's seen it on the telly - and he's quite fond of Aimee.

* * *

_posted 18:20 01-07-2013_  
 _I have been informed by an anonymous commenter - always a great source of reliable information - that the Worst Waiter Ever was not in fact the waiter, but the chef. Well done failing on both fronts then._

* * *

When Nick opens his front door the afternoon of the rehearsal dinner, the dinner that he planned to spend all night reminding people was not his idea, he's greeted by some manner of malevolent pixie. He's got on a black shirt with "TOMMO" stenciled across, bewilderingly tight trousers, hair like he's been dragged backwards through a hedge, and a vaguely familiar face. He's also got a crate propped on his hip that smells overwhelmingly of garlic. By the time Nick takes all that in, he's also glaring at Nick with what feels like enough force to singe both their eyelashes.

"I've found the right place, then," the garlic elf says. "Is everything set up for me to start bringing the courses in?"

"Er," Nick stalls, slightly unwilling to let him near the knives, or anything else that Nick values. "I suppose it is?" It takes him a few seconds longer to pull himself together and offer his hand to shake. "I'm Nick," he says, "Nick Grimshaw. I live here. Hosting."

The caterer stares at Nick's outstretched hand for a moment. "Uh, yeah," he says. "I had figured that bit out." He neither shakes Nick's hand nor says anything more, until Nick gives up and drops his arm back to his side. The pause stretches out until Nick feels like he's back at school, or been caught out by his parents. It isn't until Nick draws breath to speak that he relents. "Louis," he says. "Caterer, if we're still stating the obvious."

"Right," Nick says. Louis shifts his weight and continues staring blankly at Nick. "Have we. Have we met?"

Louis rolls his eyes, which is at least an acknowledgment that he's heard the words coming out of Nick's mouth. "Fuck's sake," he says. "No, apparently we have not met. Now if you'll excuse me?" He gestures past Nick. "I assume the kitchen is that way, and I've got a fair amount of food that I'd like to keep from going room temperature."

"Right," Nick says. "Of course you do." He steps back into the hall to let Louis pass, and then lags behind him towards the garden. Context is meant to help with memory, he'd definitely read that at some point, and even though Nick is _nearly_ sure that Louis was never a drunken shag, he's slightly reassured that he doesn't look any more familiar next to Nick's sofa, or in his kitchen, or, well. That he doesn't look familiar bent over from the waist when he sets the crate he'd been carrying on the floor. Short of knocking Louis unconscious and laying him out on the sofa, there's probably no chance of Nick getting the perspective up Louis's body to complete the set.

Because he is a creative thinker, Nick stops to tie his shoe in the entryway as Louis is about to walk past, and while the view looking up is quite a nice one, even with Louis staring at him like he's gone mad, nope. Nothing shakes loose inside Nick's brain, and by that point Louis is muttering to himself as he nearly stomps past, and he's still at it on his way back in. It sounds like variations on, "Nick bloody Grimshaw would have to have a flat with a million bloody steps, wouldn't he?"

When he returns it's with both arms loaded with clanking carrier bags, Nick offers to help. Louis says no, with a pause before it that strongly implies that Nick isn't up to the task. When Finchy arrives ten minutes later, he makes the same offer, and Louis accepts.

* * *

It's not like Louis's face is going to get _less_ familiar the longer Nick looks at it, but try as he might, Nick can't place him. If Louis really is the next big thing in British Cuisine as Aimee claims, then Nick's probably seen his picture on a mutual friend's instagram or something.

The longer Louis spends shuttling food in irritated silence, from his van to Nick's table, and his oven, and a third of the worktop next to that, the more convinced Nick is that not only should he know who Louis is, but that sometime in that shared past, Nick had insulted his mother or gotten off with his boyfriend. There's no other explanation for the contrast between how differently he reacts to Finchy, to Sam, and to whoever is on the other end of the line when his mobile rings a bit after six.

Louis doesn't show any sign of becoming less hostile towards Nick, and if something goes wrong at this point, Finchy's probably more capable of sorting it, on top of the part where Louis didn't hate Finchy on sight.

Nick's got other important host-y things he can keep himself busy with, since his presence is so clearly not wanted, like recreating the playlist for the evening for the seventeenth time. Eventually Louis's poor attitude and questionable language are replaced by peaceful silence and a handful of neatly lettered cards labeling the food, and Nick's lost his chance to investigate any further. It's a shame, even if it's a bit of relief.

There's a lot of, like, tofu dyed with beets or carrots or kale, and things carved or sculpted into shapes that make them look like other things. Nick wouldn't have recognized any of it without the labels. Probably just as well that he hadn't tried to talk to Louis without sounding like a knob, then.

* * *

**25 Chefs to Watch**

**#14: Louis Tomlinson**

_Q: When did you realize you wanted to be a chef?_

_I used to cook for my sisters. That's how it all started. Once I was old enough to really take care of the littler ones, my mum started taking on more work, and she'd be gone all hours. I started out mostly heating up things that she'd prepped, basically glorified ready meals, but then I started making things on my own. After I'd made it once, though, it was just so _boring_. So I just kept learning to make new things._

_Anyone who can spend a year perfecting their spaghetti sauce - much respect to them, but that's just not for me. It's tough to find investors for a restaurant, particularly in London, when they have no idea what to expect. And then I'm self-taught, and I don't have any references. It's an adventure like this. If I want to skive off go have a kickabout with my mates, then I can._

* * *

Nick isn't _quite_ still in bed when his phone lights up with a text the next morning, but he's only just managed to move himself from bed to sofa, and gently herded the hungover stragglers out of his flat to pastures other than Nick's.

 _zayn will be there in 10m to collect dishes_ , it says. Unknown number, and Nick also has no idea what a zayn is, but he hopes it's quiet.

When the door goes, it seems that Zayn is a disturbingly good-looking young man, and Nick wishes he'd been motivated enough for a bit of a scrub - himself, the party detritus, his brain, any of it. He is, somewhat confusingly, also wearing a black "TOMMO" shirt and comes with a pretty blonde in same standing just behind him. They're holding hands. There's a part of Nick's brain that half expects them to be trick-or-treaters looking for candy.

More catering workers, then.

"Mr. Grimshaw?" presumably-Zayn says.

Child workers. They can't possibly be that much younger than Nick, though he certainly feels like he's aged ten years in hangover. When Nick says yes, he relaxes a bit, and turns to smile at the girl.

"Good, good," he says, and then offers a bit of a relieved smile. "Hate knocking on a stranger's door on a morning. Perrie and I, we're here to, like, collect the plates and all from last night?"

Definitely Zayn then. "Yes, right. Louis, or well, someone said." Nick holds up his phone, waggles it to demonstrate the wonders of modern technology.

Zayn looks surprised at that. "He called?"

"Texted," Nick says. "About ten minutes ago."

"So Louis does have his mobile number," Zayn says to Perrie. "I knew he had to. That liar."

She doesn't seem quite as interested in the information as Zayn does, just reaches over to pat him on the arm in a sort of 'there there, dear,' motion.

"Not the time, love," she says. Then to Nick, "Can we come in, then?"

That's twice in two days of Nick caught standing in his doorway jabbering like an idiot when there are people who'd like to do their jobs. _A* work, there Grimmy_. "Right, he says. "If you want to just follow me?"

Nick is, he knows, the absolute worst with hiring people for things. He's never been tempted to start his own business for anything, and if he were, this would be the top of his 'no' list. He feels like he's only just managed a level of interaction for when he's alone with cabbies, something between talking their ear off and staring out the window in awful silence. And even that's only been with the advent of being able to walk around looking at his phone with headphones on, without looking like more of a dickhead than everyone else in the world.

This though, in his actual house with total strangers. Are they up for a bit of a chat? Is he meant to tip them? Offer them a cuppa? Bottle of water? Just stand around awkwardly with his hands in his pockets until they're done? Only, Nick would like another coffee if he's going to stay upright, and that's got to be rude, making one and not offering them. Maybe a whole pot then. He's sure he'll need it eventually, so he sets himself to the task.

And then he's standing in the corner of the kitchen idly listening to the coffeemaker gurgle while Zayn and Perrie move around him. Surely they can handle a bit of a chat while they collect things. It's barely gone 10am. Unless they're doing sums in their head, which they might be.

"I'm not standing here because I'm worried you're going to steal something," Nick says. Right. Honesty, then. Only way out is through. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Zayn, to his enormous credit, doesn't look at Nick like he's lost the plot, just carries on with his stacking in silence. Perrie saves them all with a generous smile. "Nah, love. We'll just be a mo' sorting this, then we'll be on our way and leave you to it."

If they mean that literally, then Nick can probably have his bit of chat to ease his curiosity, without it going long enough for them to be bothered by it, and maybe find out a bit about his disgruntled caterer. Maybe Zayn and Perrie are the polite faces of the operation.

"You two work with Louis full time, then?"

Zayn pauses his work to look over at Nick, but only for a moment, "Nah, mate. Likes to do most of it himself, just brings some of us in when he's got something big on, or if he, like, just wants a favor."

"Zayn made the shirts," Perrie says, beaming and pulling at the hem of hers to show it off.

That's. That's, something.

Nick spent just enough time in the silk screen room with friends at uni to know that it is, strictly speaking, possible to fuck up a simple text screen. Even if it is a bit of self-promotional nonsense, it's a good sign, Nick guesses, that Louis has friends. It's also nice that he seems to have friends who don't instinctively hate Nick.

"Used to cook all the time, Louis. He's had to spend a bit more time on, like, the business side, and he does some interviews and all. He's the worst at computers, though, and inventory tracking and scheduling. Our mate Niall keeps trying to do that bit for him, on the cheap mostly.

"Oh, tomorrow will be fine, though," Perrie hurries to say. "Louis takes it serious, when he's got a contract and all, don't you worry."

By then, they're done stacking everything into the crates and bags that Louis had carried in the night before.

"We'll see you at the wedding?" Zayn says as they're letting themselves out the door.

Nick manages an affirmative noise

"Wicked," Zayn says, and, "This is going to be sick," to Perrie, and then they're gone, leaving Nick alone with his coffeemaker and a load of fancy leftovers.

* * *

Zayn's mention of interviews has Nick curious enough to fire up his laptop as he works his way through the coffee and some of Louis's less-confusing leftovers. There hasn't been any overnight magic that produces the makings of a bacon sarnie, but some of the dishes with the way aggressive seasonings hit close enough to be a distraction.

Louis has quite an amateur following and a couple proper write-ups in _Delicious_ and _Chef_ that Nick saves to read later, once it's easier to focus on words.

A tumblr search produces pictures of Louis's food and his face in roughly equal quantities, and a few quotes alongside. About half the pictures are accompanied by complaints that the counter he's serving from hides so much of his body. There's also a bewildering number of photos from what looks like a five-a-side football match that one of Louis's friends documented on instagram. It's a lot.

* * *

**Chefs Revealed:  Louis Tomlinson**

_We meet up with Louis Tomlinson, at his request, in a McDonald's near his home. We arrive at what seems to be the tail end of a gathering of Louis's friends. More than half of them, Louis included, are sweaty and muddy and still in their sport kit. They're all laughing, and surrounded by the crumpled remains of their food wrappers. It's an odd first impression for the reputedly mercurial and demanding up-and-coming chef, but Tomlinson has also started to demonstrate hints of media savvy. There's no question that this setting humanizes him._

_It's a logical starting point for our conversation, one which will range across much of his life and many of his opinions. "There's room for all types of food," Tomlinson says. "I worked at a place like this once. No, the ingredients and the preparation aren't top-notch, but they stick their noses up if we come in looking like this, either."_

_"Got fired," he says. It's a pair of words that appears many more times throughout our conversation, but here and now, Tomlinson seems to have found his vocation._

* * *

Aimee's wedding is amazing, and exhausting, and, as expected, completely and totally bonkers. Nick cries twice during the ceremony - once when Aimee starts down the aisle, and once during Ian's vows - and then again _after_ when Aimee and Ian are just standing there like idiots, smiling at each other.

And then he starts drinking at the reception before they even make it to the head table. Nick's fairly certain that Aimee had told him the schedule for the reception, but Nick can't be arsed to remember what she said about it. Since he's neither best man nor maid of honor, he figures that absolves him of any responsibility to do anything other than have a good time, and since he and Daisy are footing the bill for the bar as their wedding present, he doesn't even have to feel guilty about parking himself in front of the bartender so that he can prop himself upright and have a chat with everyone while trying to drink himself horizontal before anyone else exhibits horrible wedding behaviour.

Not enough distracting strangers at the wedding, that's the problem with an intimate guest list. And now Daisy's having a bit more success with the bartender than Nick is, but that's okay. It leaves him more time to watch Louis's ass as he circles the tables.

Louis has got staff with him tonight, which makes sense, given that there are ten times as many people as had been at the rehearsal dinner, and things that require coordination, Nick presumes, on top of the waiters to carry and clear. He's seen both Zayn and Perrie in the mix, and Alexa's been chatting up a tall curly-haired bloke who definitely wasn't at the wedding ceremony and who is delivering food in a fairly lackadaisical manner, but who also isn't _quite_ dressed like the rest of the waiters. He'll have to ask her later.

* * *

This time, instead of his TOMMO t-shirt and skinny jeans, Louis is dressed up just enough that he also very nearly blends in with the waitstaff - white shirt, black trousers, shiny shoes. His waistcoat looks soft, and he's got his sleeves turned up so that he's still showing off the permanent marker doodles that he calls tattoos.

His hair is still terrible.

He ought to be in a chef's jacket, Nick thinks, or something else that's formless and unappealing, if he's going to be out here, wandering around and all distracting to everyone. It's Aimee's day. Louis and his unfairly attractive staff have no right.

* * *

Nick doesn't have any friends who are doctors, but he's pretty sure it's a thing that everyone comes up to doctors at parties and wants them to diagnose their ailments. It doesn't take long for Nick to be tired of people coming up to him at parties and asking him about the food, so he can sympathize.  It also doesn't seem fair that anyone would want him to tear apart a menu that Aimee put weeks into planning.

" _It was good,_ " Drew parrots back. " _I liked it_. Ugh," he says. " _Boooring,_ Grimmy. Aren't you a bit young to be losing your edge like that?"

"Dunno what you want me to say," Nick says. "If you expect me to start saying things like 'mouthfeel' or 'ambrosial' or 'piquant' you're going to be waiting a long time. It _was_ good, and I _did_ like it, and now I also like these vodka tonics," he says, raising his glass. "And in a few minutes, I am going to like the music enough to dance, and you all can just shut up with demanding that I perform to your expectations."

"Ooooooh," Drew says in his best fake posh voice, long since calculated to irritate, "well lah-de-dah."

"My friends' wedding isn't fodder for the masses," Nick grumbles.

"Yet," Drew laughs. It's a fair point, if not one that Nick's going to admit. There's no telling what the tyranny of a deadline might tear out of him.

"Might want to come up with something more eloquent for that one," Drew says with a nod. That's all the warning Nick gets before Louis is stood next to him and Drew has departed for snarkier company.

"Well?" Louis says with a nod back towards the tables. "Here's your chance, let's have it."

"I liked the," Nick starts, and then can't come up with the a word to follow it. The blank space in his brain is made up of equal parts vodka, emotional exhaustion, and Louis's eyes entirely focused on him.

"Yes, very convincing," Louis says. "Thanks for the compliment, I'll be sure to put that in my testimonials. ' _I liked the..._ '" his impression of Nick sounds nothing like Nick, too posh by half.

"Shurrup," Nick mumbles into his drink. He definitely needs another.

"You're a terrible food critic," Louis says.

"I know!" Nick has been saying this in his head all day while dodging questions, and he'd thought that it was well locked down to his internal voice. The fact that it escapes now seems to catch Louis off guard as much as it does Nick, or maybe that's just the volume at which he said it. "I don't know the first thing about proper food," Nick says at a more reasonable volume. "I can barely cook to feed myself, shouldn't be throwing stones."

Louis's almost got a smile on his face, and if at Nick's expense, that's fine. He can be ridiculous for a bit. "There's not much to it. I used to be rubbish at it before I had to start cooking for my sisters. Even you can probably be taught."

Nick nearly says "I know," before realizing that he'd have to explain how he knows, which is one embarrassing moment too far for his relative sobriety, thank god. "Boring cooking for one," he says instead. "That's my worst thing. Always end up with avocado on toast or summat. I like cooking with other people, I suppose."

"Oh," Louis says, eyes as wide as if Nick has said something shocking, "are there people willing to spend time with you then?"

Nick starts to gesture, a bit of most-swipe in Louis's direction, but he reins it in when he realizes he's still holding a drink. "Oi, you. You do realize that you are currently at a party full of my friends. That this is the second time this week that you've been at a party full of my friends?"

Louis smiles again, but this time with all his teeth. "I just figured you all gathered together so there were better odds of attracting the paps."

"Christ, has anyone _ever_ hired you more than once?" Nick shoots back. "The pop-ups make so much more sense now."

"Your Daisy seems to like me," Louis says.

"She's not my- whatever," Nick snaps. "Of course Daisy likes you. She likes having broken things to fix. She'll probably ship you a packet of crystals to cleanse your cloudy fucking aura."

Louis's been looking past Nick most of the time they've been talking - fighting, whatever - but something behind Nick sharpens Louis's attention and he turns. "Sorry, love, this has been great, but I'm _needed_." He drops the words over his shoulder as he goes, and Nick watches him, cursing himself for getting riled up, and clutching his glass tightly enough that his fingers ache.

* * *

Eventually the vodka tonics - and the extraordinarily boring glasses of water, but aging has finally taught Nick his lesson about keeping hydrated while he drinks - catch up with him, and he admits that he has to abandon the party for the moment and go for a wee. He still makes his way out of the hall at a leisurely pace, following the tipsy weaving of his path to its conversational conclusions, but eventually he makes it to the loos.

The door from the corridor opens just as Nick is finishing, and a bit of a sideways glance confirms that because Nick is gathering all the bad luck around him, it's Louis who's appeared. It's almost as if they'd met by mutual agreement to continue their conversation, or whatever that was by the bar, if they hadn't been near to chucking the stones from the floral arrangements at each other.

Louis bustles through the door and crosses to the urinal at the far end of the room, in silence as God intended. The sounds of the party seem very far behind them.

So definitely not by mutual agreement, then.

Nick gets caught - not staring, thank fuck, but definitely taking his time about leaving the lav and getting back out to the party. Louis already thinks Nick is full of himself. It can't hurt his reputation any more if he spends an extra 30 seconds trying to un-wilt his quiff.

He finally nods at Louis when they're both at the sinks. "Alright?"

Louis doesn't pause in his movements, soap in hand and tap on. "Waiting to make sure I wash my hands?"

"Making sure you don't need a boost up to the sinks," Nick jokes. Louis doesn't laugh.

The counter that the taps are set into is stupidly high, probably artistically so, but mostly just bad design as far as Nick is concerned. When Nick had first leant in closer to the mirror, the edge of the counter had pressed uncomfortably against the top of his hipbones.

"Right, then, of course," Louis mutters, "in vino veritas."

Can't go ten seconds without putting his foot in his mouth, can Nick. Brilliant. "Sorry," Nick says. "I didn't-"

"You didn't mean to make a short joke? Because I'm not seeing another meaning there, mate."

Nick hasn't been as flustered by a simple conversation in ages as is he is by every word he and Louis exchange, but he's determined that he's not going to have another awful sniping session, not on Aimee and Ian's day, and not with someone who still holds some of the outcome in his hands. He can feel his face getting hot and resolutely avoids looking at any blotchiness in the mirror. It's less embarrassing to turn and watch Louis, but only just. "Didn't know what else to say," he offers. "Sometimes my brain takes my mouth to the lazy place."

They're words, and it's nearly an apology, too. Enough of one that it holds all of Nick's questions in, the 'did you really fancy me' and the 'is it really my fault you gave up your restaurant?' and the 'do you really hate me?'

"Nothing worse than a lazy mouth," Louis says.

Nick shrugs. "Doesn't get as much exercise as it used to," he says.

Louis turns around, drying his hands and then leaning back against the sinks like he means to be there for a bit. "I would have thought, mouth like yours, it gets quite a few workouts," Louis says.

"More of a fingers game these days," Nick says, miming typing in the air in front of him.

"Is that so?" Louis says, all idle disinterest. As much as Nick knows he's not managed to put a foot right in conversation with Louis since the day they met, this is innuendo, this is flirting, plain as the nose on his face. This is Louis Tomlinson, standing too close to Nick to be easy about it, watching him with intent, and all Nick can manage is to nod.

It's a fairly abrupt change from where Nick thought they were, as if walking through the door from one room to the next flipped some Jekyll-and-Hyde switch in Louis's brain.

Nick's got his mouth open to- to protest, to say something, except that he can't remember what, and Louis is advancing on him. Nick hopes that he's not gone full psychopath.

At least he's made sure that Louis washes his hands, if he's about to be murdered.

It's impossible to look away from Louis, or at least more effort than Nick is willing to make. He's mesmerizing, like- like a stupid cartoon snake, coiling to strike, watching Nick with equal curiosity. Louis, he just keeps getting closer, until he nearly has to look up through his stupid swoopy fringe to look Nick in the eye.

"So you're rubbish at talking," Louis says, but it's an oddly gentle statement, "and I know you're rubbish at writing, but maybe that doesn't have to matter." And then he reaches to grab hold of Nick, pushes up on his toes, and presses his mouth to Nick's.

Nick can't help a bit of a gasp at the contact, but Louis keeps at it, tugging until Nick reacts enough to get his hands on Louis, to take the kiss deeper. Nick registers Louis's hands moving until his palms are pressed against Nick's chest, and yes, absolutely, he would like more of that.

With the distraction of Louis's mouth it takes him a moment too long to register that Louis isn't just pressing, he's pushing. He stumbles back, half the force of Louis's arms and half his own instinctive jerk away, but almost before he can focus on Louis's face to figure out where on Earth he'd gone wrong, Louis - there's no other word for it, as ridiculous as it is - he hops up onto the counter and pulls Nick back to him. It puts Louis a couple inches taller, but Nick can work with that, stretch his neck in the other direction.

The only thing that keeps a giggle about it from escaping, and it's a close-run thing, is the fact that Louis is now in prime position to take any displeasure out directly on Nick's delicate bits.

Christ, Louis is already hard, and Nick is well on his way and they're - they're not in a disused cloakroom or even in one of the stalls, much less in a room with a bed and a door that locks between himself and random strangers interrupting, which is really the way Nick prefers to do these sorts of things these days, when he gets the chance. A hurried blowie is well enough when you're getting off with a different guy every week, but he _knows_ Louis, and more to the point, shock horror, might actually _like_ him, so the more space he can put between whatever this is and the sort of story that gets retold as entertainment over brunch once a month until the end of time, the better.

On the other hand, if Louis still thinks that Nick is the worst sort of knob, and all that's on offer here is ten minutes of hate-sex, then Nick would very much like to get his dick sucked.

It's a dilemma, and it also makes Nick want to make a joke about Louis's palette.

Only, Louis's unfortunate hop up on to the counter has put his mouth farther from Nick's cock, and they both have places to be.

Louis is quite literally being paid to be there, and even if Nick is clear of speech-making responsibilities, that doesn't mean he can skive off celebrating the blessed union of two of his favorite people in the whole world.

This isn't the grotty toilet in a club, there's no bass thumping through the walls - nor will there be, if the DJ sticks to the approved playlist. The way they've all been drinking, surely someone will be in for a wee any second.

Getting off with a handsome stranger at your best friend's wedding, that's all fine and good in a film, but in practice, Nick knows that he has to go back out and probably dance with someone's elderly relative.

Put like that, it sounds like a _terrible_ idea. Not that Nick is worried that the sex will be horrible - he's a great shag and a potentially rubbish date.

Except what if they put it off and then Nick really is a rubbish date, and they never get to shag at all. If he doesn't get to see Louis even a little bit naked, what has even been the point of all this?

"I don't think," Nick says, and before he even manages the rest of the sentence, the _I don't think this is a good idea_ , Louis's quicksilver temper has turned against him again, and he's got his arms crossed across his chest. He's still sitting on the damned counter though. His knees are bare centimeters from Nick's hips, so Nick takes a steps back.

"You really are the worst at everything, aren't you?" Louis says. "Why don't you go find something else to ruin then?"

"I just don't think this is the time," Nick says. He's a bit wobbly about why, and for some reason the mutinous expression on Louis's face isn't helping Nick remember.

"Go on, then," Louis says, shooing Nick away like an insect. "Not the time, not the place, another ironic dance with your friends is definitely more important."

Nick's in no state to debate the relative importance. It's an apples and oranges debate that he's not sure he could work out sober, but Louis isn't wrong, for all that. Maybe Louis does this all the time, every week. This isn't just another day at work for Nick.

"Fine," Louis says, and hops down from the counter. "I'll just go then, Jesus."

"Can we-" Nick says.

"No," Louis says. "It seems that we can't." The door swings shut behind him.

* * *

As hard as Nick tries when he gets back to the group, a bit of the shine has gone out of the celebration. Ian and Aimee are off for their Caribbean honeymoon at a bewilderingly early hour the next morning, so they may still be dancing like idiots with each other and everyone else, but they're dancing like relatively sober ones. Relatives young and old are starting to droop, as are the drunker half of their friends. He's not sad to see the evening end, and it's no struggle at all to part ways with the partiers and get a cab back home.

* * *

**Glimpsing the future of food in London**

_When do you plan to open a permanent restaurant?_

_LT: [laughs] That's like my mum asking when I'm going to settle down, give her some grandkids. I can't say that I'll never go back to full time restaurant work, but I don't think it's for me. All that hassle with investors and feasibility studies, business plans. Does my head in. I just want to cook._

_I had the management of the kitchen at this restaurant, was head chef if you can call it that. Way too young, and I was probably doing a shit job of it, but I was dead scared to quit as much as I was dead scared of ruining it. I'd been fired from every job I touched by that point, and when you're that young [laughs] like I'm so ancient now, ooh, twenty-four._

_I got into this ridiculous row with a bloke who came into my restaurant one night, and he complained about it online, and..._

_It was just [expletive] those guys. I wasn't doing anything I loved, and I wasn't even doing a passable job of working at something I hated. So I quit. First time I'd quit a job instead of being fired, actually._

* * *

Nick's just changed out of his suit, hanging it up and everything, and into a pair of pajama bottoms, when the bell at the front door goes.

If it were the middle of the day, or if Nick was, honestly, doing anything at all worthwhile, he'd just ignore it, but his residually floaty brain convinces him that he's got nothing better going, and there's the outside chance that it's someone who's been beset by... especially posh robbers, maybe and needs help. Badgers loose in the back garden, perhaps.

He's not, to be honest, expecting to see Louis Tomlinson. Louis seems almost equally surprised to see him, though that makes no sense. They watch each other in silence for a few moments, Louis still in his shirt and tie, and Nick very much wishing he'd put on more clothing before opening the door.

"The hotel informed me that Mr. Grimshaw had checked out," Louis says.

"Yes," Nick says. As much as he draws out the syllable, it seems insufficiently long for Nick to pull together a more coherent response. "Didn't see the point in staying. What's all this then?"

Nick wouldn't swear that Louis has ever looked embarrassed a day in his life, but he does at least look a little hesitant, stood on Nick's doorstep with what certainly seems like a peace offering.

"Well, I do literally know where you live, now. It makes veiled threats on the internet a little bit creepy, so I thought we were due for something else."

He's holding up a familiar bottle of wine in one hand, and a carrier bag in the other, and the bag is heavy enough that Nick gets briefly distracted by the bulge of Louis's biceps pressing against the fabric. He's hardly likely to burst out of it in a Hulk style, but Nick does appreciate a solid man in well-fitting clothes, even if that man seems to be going out of his way to do Nick's head in.

"The bartender let you just take a bottle of wine?" Nick asks. "Give me that. I'll have you know I paid for it." He pulls the bottle out of Louis's grasp, and turns to head down the hall. If Louis thinks he's getting a more gracious invitation than that, that's his loss.

Louis does follow, and deposits the carrier bag on Nick's dining table, then starts pulling foil-and-paper parcels out. "Dating is stupid, you know," Louis is saying. "Nobody goes on dates anymore. Do you have plates?"

"Yes, I have _plates_ ," Nick says, before going to fetch same, and some utensils. And a pair of wine glasses, because this appears to be a thing that is going forward.

When he returns with plates, Louis has the first two of the packets opened. He's outlined by the lights in the garden and Nick briefly entertains a fantasy of lighting the candles that have sat, untouched, on the table practically since he moved in. "I wasn't aware that I'd asked," Nick says.

"Of course not," Louis says, with the same _because you're an idiot_ tone that seems to underlay most of his statements. "But you wanted to, didn't you? Is that why you shut down, back there? I thought it was gay panic, but Zayn said I was off my rocker."

Score one for Zayn, Nick thinks, and any more of Louis's improbably fit helpers, if they're what've gotten Louis over here so early on what must be a busy night. Still, " _Gay panic_ ," Nick parrots, nonplussed. "But you _read_ my _blog_. I know you have."

"Not really." Louis shrugs. "None of the personal bits, and not most of the reviews, if I'm honest. Who has the time for all that twaffle, when you could be out there eating good food of your own and shagging fit lads. Not that you'd know anything about either of those." He cocks his head, mock-contemplative. "I suppose that explains a lot."

"I've never not been out," Nick says. "I'm not sure how to be any gayer than I already am, unless I put a picture of me shagging someone on the front page of my blog."

The fact remains that Louis _is_ a fit lad, and more than likely has brought some excellent leftovers with him, and now that Nick has gotten over shock, anger and mild depression, he's starving, and can feel a hint of hangover, or at least sobriety, creeping up on him.

Louis is staring at Nick's chest. Maybe his necklace, but almost definitely his chest, and it has the odd effect of making Nick want to cover up with his hands.

"I'm just. I'm just going to go pull a shirt on," Nick says, already backing away towards the hall.

"If you want," Louis says. He's shifted so that he's leaning back against the table, and his posture is more open than Nick's ever seen it. With the way the words come out, quiet, contemplative, it's enough to slow Nick down. It sounds as much like an offer of something incomplete as it does an agreement.

"Not very hygenic, is it?" Nick says in a tone to match Louis's.

Louis smiles, then, a real one. "Not that I don't love a good hand-washing," he says. "Important stuff, that, but I'm starting to worry about your priorities." He pushes up and takes a step towards Nick, and he keeps his gaze trained up on Nick's face in a way that's excruciating and impossible to look away from. "We don't have to eat," he says.

It's definitely an offer, and this time Nick has a bed, or at the very least a sofa, and a door that locks.

* * *

**There's a story going around that you credit one of your customers for giving you the push to go out on your own**

_Tomlinson: Is there? I don't know that he deserves any credit for my career, but it's true that there's a was one bloke who was probably the straw that broke the camel's back._

_I had been doing a lot - a LOT - of princess stories with my little sisters, you know, Cinderella, Rapunzel. And meanwhile working in this really terrible restaurant. I was partly to blame, but it was just - small town, boring food. Passed health and safety and all, but just, really, truly unimaginative._

_This guy comes in one night, and he's well fit, he's by himself. I'd been having just the most awful day, and I literally thought, this is my prince to come save me. Not that he was going to literally sweep me off my feet, but just that maybe the day would end on a good note._

_He was just such a [expletive]. We got into this, almost a shouting match, right over his table. I nearly ruined his food, he didn't leave a tip. Just, the epitome of the worst restaurant interaction ever._

_I didn't quit that night, but it was soon after. It was just never going to get any better, I was miserable, I was making other people miserable, and no one was going to save me._

_So now I'm happier, I think my family are happier, I know my friends are. Now I call up my mates if there's a job needs doing, and if we can pull it together we do. If there's something else that's more important, we don't. It pays enough for my rent, and that's all I need right now._

_I'm still young, right? Plenty of time for me to be boring and awful later._

**Author's Note:**

> [go follow tomlinshawficexchange](http://tomlinshawficexchange.tumblr.com/post/92873384261/mix-the-salt-and-sugar-and-flour-for-mayapiee) for the rest of the fic announcements


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